In the dusty town of Àpẹ́rẹ, where the morning sun kissed the red earth with golden heat, there lived a girl named Morẹ́níké. She could sing. Not just ordinary singing, her voice carried the kind of emotion that could make a crying child fall asleep or silence a crowd in the middle of a bustling market.

Ever since she was young, Morẹ́níké dreamt of becoming a world-class singer. She wrote her own songs, sang at weddings, church crusades, school events, anywhere there was a crowd and a microphone. Everyone in town called her “Orin Ayò” – the Song of Joy.

But reality? Reality had other plans.

After her father died, her mother struggled to feed their family of four. Morẹ́níké got a call one day from an uncle in Lagos. He said, “Forget this music thing for now. Come and work in my shop. You'll be making money, sending something home every month. Music doesn’t feed people.”

She cried that night. Not because she didn’t want to help, but because she knew what she was leaving behind. Her heart was in studios, not supermarkets. But they needed to eat.

So she packed her dreams in a nylon bag and left for Lagos.

Days became months. Months turned into three long years. She now ran her uncle's mini-mart, stood behind the counter from morning till night, and hummed her songs to herself while selling garri, sardines, and rice.

One day, a talent scout passed by the shop and paused.

“Is that you singing?” he asked.

She nodded shyly.

“You’re good. You should audition.”

She smiled politely. “I used to dream of that. But now, I just sell rice.”

That night, as she locked the shop and counted money, tears fell onto the naira notes. Not because she was poor, but because she knew she was rich in something she had let go.

And then it hit her:
She had traded her future for her fear. Her purpose for her plate.

Moral:

May we never be so hungry for survival that we starve our destiny.

Stay tuned for part 2🤭

#AfricanReality
#ChasingDreams
#Morẹ́níkéTheSinger
#HustleButDon’tForgetYourCalling